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Olroch and Raymond's Sea Journey on Wheels by Donald Sans

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1. Kiss me, Son of God

After Raymond had made love to his father for the third time that day he began to feel more than a little ill. Later on he was sick. Things had not been going too well for Raymond recently, a week earlier his father had introduced him to his new mother.

“This is Linda,” he’d said. “We are married.”

“Oh, congratulations,” Raymond said, although he hadn’t meant it at the time. His father loved him and Raymond loved his father but he was finding it harder and harder each day to connect together the right things to say to him. And although he enjoyed the sex, especially since Linda had started to join in, he didn’t like the idea of so much commitment. He had his own live to lead and he wanted to get out and do his own thing. What he really wanted to do was either work in television, or drive trains or join the army.

* * *

Olroch the Patient stepped through the last trees on the edge of Gadlin Forest to find the final destination, his home village. It had been a long journey. The sight of the welcoming green grass, the early dawn mist and the straw-thatched roofs of the small dwellings almost brought a tear to his age-cracked eyes. But Olroch was beyond that and his brutal heart ensured that no emotion betrayed him. He laid his sturdy battleaxe on the ground and sat heavily on a rock. From the other side of the village the cockerel crowed its early-morning chant and he closed his eyes and tried to imagine it in its splendour. The cockerel stayed in his mind for only a second until it was pushed out by horrific images of evil that still scarred his thoughts. He’d had no sleep for fifteen nights. Fifteen long and painful nights since he left behind the defeated war camp at South Romilcan. He could almost hear the dying screams of his fellow men and he could smell the putrid stench of death upon death. It had been a defeat he would never forget, the wounds of loss would not heal with time.

Olroch’s head ached, partly with exhaustion and partly with strain. He lifted his large hands and clutched his forehead. Why has my god forgotten me? he thought. Where are you Astaroth, God of Resentment, Prince of Darkness, The Tempter? Where are you now? Olroch thought about the shores of South Romilcan and the Sea Nations that brought defeat to his ranks. He had been sat on the rocky cliffside, gazing out, pensively, over a broad bitumen-coloured sea. Lulled into a sentimental mood by the crashing and breathing of the tide. It was then that he heard the far off cries of the Sea Nation and minutes later their magnificent black sails came into sight on the horizon. Bile had risen into his throat and at that moment he realised that the ocean and its sailors were too massive an enemy to be considered with any confidence. He had panicked and lost.

The burden sat heavily on him, and the arrow of guilt stuck painfully in his chest. He raised his eyes towards his village again and licked his dry lips with a dry tongue.

“Olroch?” came a voice. “Olroch is that you?” He stood up to greet a stocky man running towards him. “Father, I’m home”, he said, only this time a tear really did run down his cheek.

* * *

Raymond was having a dream about a cherub approaching him with a golden tray of pastries, from which Raymond selected a chocolate eclair. Only then did he notice the painful looking inflammations that had swollen its tiny scrotum and caused the poor thing to walk in a sort of comedy, bow-legged manner. Raymond snorted himself awake into fits of laughter, almost choking on his own excitement. “Cherubs are only good for one thing,” he thought, grinning madly, “and I wish I had one.”

He had an early morning erection and he began to masturbate furiously, his mind wandering to images of winged cherubs flying into his face, bodybuilders on the beach, and women with no arms tickling him with their feet. He came into his sheets and lay there amongst his semen for a while to catch his breath.

From downstairs he could hear his father and Linda arguing and he wished that he could join them and aggravate the situation. Smiling, he turned on the television just in time to catch the news.

* * *

After Olroch had made love to his father, Gendark, he fell back on the grass, breathing heavily. That night they had camped by a mountain stream, but lit no fires. In the early evening Olroch had recited poetry, his voice soft and melodious, his words erotic and evocative. “I wrote them myself,” Olroch whispered to Gender, “though I will not own to them. I know not why, I’m a fine poet.”

“But they are so sad,” his father replied.

“Ah beauty is sad,” said Olroch, “for it fades.”

He left his father’s side and retreated to a nearby window, sitting with his back to the tree, a silver ghost in the moonlight.

“All family is a lie,” he muttered to himself.”

2. Lemon Mint

In the bath.

Raymond knew about creativity. Raymond wrote poetry. He was counting heartbeats. “Too many,” he said quietly to himself, “too many.”

The condensation on the bathroom mirror had dribbled down and was dripping off, perhaps a little too noisily, Raymond thought, into the basin. His bathwater had gone cloudy and tepid, wrinkling his Fingertips and toes into the texture of chicken skin. A line of poetry he had composed himself came to mind and he quoted to himself aloud:

“The tank, the swan, and the incredible indulgence. / The headache and the fool. / My own rotting repugnance. / The use of the rake is mine. The tool.”

Raymond spat into the water. He hated poetry. His naked chest was bruised heavily and he gently rubbed his tender ribs. His father had been hitting him.

* * *

As the dawn bird-song began, Olroch groaned and eased his aching body away from the probing tree roots that were denting his side. His eyes opened and he sat up, his mouth dry. Pushing back his course blanket he walked to where Gendark slept, picked up his pack, rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen and went to the stream. Taking out a bar or soap he stripped his shirt and knelt by the swift rushing water.

“Please don’t do that, son,” called Gendark who had just awoken.

“What?”

The tall but ageing warrior walked across to Olroch, squatting by his side. “The soap bubbles will carry on downstream. It is not wise thus to announce our movements.”

Olroch cursed himself for a fool and apologised swiftly.

“That is not necessary. I am sorry to have intruded. Do you see that plant there, by the rock?”

Olroch twisted, then nodded. “It is a lemon mint. Wash in the water, then crush some or the leaves and clean your beautiful body. It will refresh you and create... a more pleasant aroma.” Raymond warmed to the music on his stereo. His dying song. It was Frank Sinatra singing “Jeepers Creepers”. The blooded razor on the bed was drying and Raymond was beginning to hallucinate in his agony. The veins in his wrists were cut open and he could smell the blood. Images of warriors in far-away fantasy lands flooded his day-dreams as he slipped into his own death. “Where d’you get those eyes..?”

* * *

Olroch looked sternly onto the lifeless body of his father. It had to happen, it had to come in the end. He wiped the blood from his sword and set off on his journey back to the war camp at South Romilcan. “This time, Astaroth,” he thought. “This time the Sea Nation will suck its own blood.”

Donald Sans